


What You Know

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Post Reichenbach, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is dead. That doesn't mean he doesn't have a life to look forward to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://equalseleventhirds.tumblr.com/post/51186342171/sallyfuckingdonovan-replied-to#notes) conversation between equalseleventhirds and sallyfuckingdonovan on Tumblr. 
> 
> Title from the song ["What You Know"](http://youtu.be/Bzba7TfDINc) by Two Door Cinema Club.
> 
> Not beta'd or britpicked, so please let me know if you see any mistakes or inconsistencies.
> 
> I'm going to keep changing and adding tags, so keep an eye out for them for anything that might squick or trigger you. Okay, I'll shut up now. Enjoy.

The advantages of shagging John were unbelievable, to the point of appearing irresponsible.

It was, in a way. The simple thought of an Alpha and an Omega living together without any sort of bond or relationship was irresponsible. The two of them shagging almost seemed natural, just nature taking its course.

Sherlock couldn't exactly pinpoint how and why they started, mostly because he thought that was unimportant information and thus put it in some isolated corner of his mind palace. It was just an unspoken agreement between the two; once Sherlock starts feeling a little warm and antsy, his scent would intensify and John would know what to do.

They were careful. Condoms were useless during a heat, so Sherlock used birth control. No suppressants. The side effects outweighed the benefits. No bond. Absolutely no bond. Pregnancy was more likely to happen in a bond. Bonds were messy anyway. Sherlock had seen more than a few murders that were directly or indirectly cause by bonds. They didn't need one to shag.

Heats passed quicker. Instead of having to lock himself in his room for an entire week, Sherlock would have a few rounds with John and be done with it. Something about mingling hormones, but Sherlock didn't care as long as his heat lasted three days instead of seven.

Heats felt much, much better. It was definitely the Alpha aspect in play. The days of fumbling with toys and tangling himself in sticky sheets were over the day they decided to start this compromise. It was a win for the both of them. John had an Omega in heat to fuck, and Sherlock had his heat taken care of in an enjoyable and convenient way.

No strings attached. Nobody had to know. Relationships were tedious and distracting anyway. John wasn't complaining. Alphas have needs as well. John still had dates with boring female Betas and Omegas, with varying degrees of success. Sherlock remained as his flatmate, friend, and partner.

So, every three months John would meet Sherlock in his room. Their pressed bodies, rocking and crashing like waves in a sea of sheets, made these days just a little more bearable. Sherlock wasn't himself during those days; he was a needy Omega, and John was so willing to give into him. 

They didn't speak much. No screamed names and proclamations of love. Just whimpers, moans and muttered commands, with the occasional exclamation. They didn't pet each other or fill the other with kisses; they were just going through the heat. 

Between rounds and after the knot gave way, they just laid there. Not much touching and talking, but it didn't feel awkward to Sherlock. He was too far gone to care, a panting, sweaty, moist mess. John would make Sherlock eat and rehydrate. He smiled and petted Sherlock's hair; he changed the sheets and made sure Sherlock was okay. An Alpha taking care of an Omega. Simply hormones, and that's how Sherlock wanted it.

Everything was under control.

What wasn't under control was Moriarty.

The trickster lured Sherlock in with a challenge, a game, a test of wits, a tale. Sherlock let himself get in too deep. He loved the chase, lived for it, until it grew out of control.

No way out. Sherlock had to play by Moriarty's rules or face dire consequences. Sentiment got involved, giving Moriarty ammunition. The media turned on him, putting all eyes on him. No choice but to die in disgrace and erase everything he had done.

The game took a toll on his body. During the last days he was alive, his body ached constantly. His back, his chest, his head all throbbed dully. Fatigue slowed him down, dulled his mind and forced him to sleep. He would lash out at the slightest provocation, which isn't unusual for him, but he would also have to hold back that inexplicable tightness in his throat and moisture in his eyes because of any ridiculous thing. Food seemed absolutely repulsive. Even if he did eat while he was working, the thought of food made his stomach clench. He didn't eat much, ignoring his growling stomach and John's concerned looks. The nausea was just too much.

Still, the world didn't stop because Sherlock felt a little ill. He clenched his jaw and made plans. People were coordinated. Strings were pulled. Sherlock did in fact fall, safely. Tossed onto the pavement by his network so that John could confirm that he was a dead man and a fake.

Fake blood. Fake pedestrians. Fake paramedics. Everything was fabricated. It was fitting for the fake genius.

The fake paramedics showed up and pronounced him dead on the scene. His body was placed on a stretcher and whisked away to the morgue, no questions asked. 

The morgue's door echoed shut. Sherlock waited a few moments. There was no sign of anyone else. Sherlock finally sighed, releasing the tension from his body. 

He'd done it. He was dead. He convinced them that Sherlock Holmes was a fake.

He mentally sorted out his body. Nothing actually bleeding or broken, it seemed. His body was aching, but that was probably from the excertion. His stomach was sick, possibly stress. The ball that was pressed against his armpit rolled off the gurney, bouncing away. He shook his tingly hand in order to get the blood flowing again.

Footsteps approached, sharp squeaks on the tiled floor. Molly and her sensible shoes. It was a Sunday, so she must be the only on-call pathologist today. Just as planned.

"You can sit up," she said once she reached the gurney. Her voice was small, as if trying to hide itself. "I have the morgue all to myself."

Sherlock didn't move at first. Then he rolled his head to his side and looked up at Molly staring down at him with concern. "Before you ask, I'm fine," he muttered, eyes hard.

That made Molly frown. "Can you sit up?" she asked. 

Sherlock could, slowly pulling his protesting body upright.  Molly washed the fake blood off of him and checked for injuries. Everything seemed to be in order. Still, Sherlock could see how her eyebrows were pulled together, the slight purse on her lips, the way she treated Sherlock like he would shatter. He didn't comment on it, instead remaining silent as Molly's hands worked over him.

She stepped back to get a good look at him."Are you sure you're alright?" she finally asked. She frowned and played with her hands uncomfortably. "I mean, you're uninjured, but are you alright?"

Sherlock sat up straight. His aching back cracked loudly in the silent room. "You don't have to worry about me. You most likely will never see me again." His voice was hoarse and heavy.

"Sherlock, you don't know that," she said, taking his pallid hand.  "You know you can talk to me, about anything. I won't breathe a word to anyone. Not like I can anyway. People will think I'm mad if I say a body started talking to me." She let out a strained giggle, but quickly swallowed it down when Sherlock didn't respond.

He couldn't allow himself to open up again. He would not let people inside and allow them to make themselves at home in his heart and his mind was what caused all of this. He unfocused and got distracted, which almost resulted in three deaths he couldn't bare. That was not going to happen again. Now he knew how dangerous it was for people to associate with him.

That doesn't mean that he had stopped feeling their weight in his chest. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Molly, who was staring at him with wide eyed concern. 

No, he was not alright. Those people left irreversible damage in him. His body ached for rest and comfort. He actually wanted to sleep for once. He was hungry, besides the nausea gnawing on his stomach. He wanted to go home, to 221B, his chair, to his violin, to John's tea and keyboard clicks.

He remained silent, staring at Molly's shoes. Molly decided that Sherlock wasn't going to answer, so she walked over to her files and pulled out a form. Sherlock's death certificate.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she said as she signed the death certificate, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. She dropped the pen on her desk. "That's that. I just need to process this correctly. Nobody will suspect anything, I hope."

Sherlock caught the nervous lift in her voice. "We aren't going to get caught." 

Molly nodded sheepishly at first, but then she found some strength and nodded with more enthusiasm, smiling even. She checked her watch. "I think someone must have called your brother by now. Shouldn't take long for him to get here. He should get here before someone realises that you're here."

Sherlock didn't reply, mentally reciting the names and purposes of the chemicals of the wall in front of him to distract himself. Molly stood there, leaning against the desk and watching Sherlock, for a several long seconds.

"Have you been eating?" she asked impulsively to fill the silence. Sherlock shrugged, not looking at her. Molly added, "I have my lunch here. You can have it, if you want. I don't mind. It's just a salad and a bottle of water."

Sherlock was going to reject her offer, but he really was hungry. Besides the queasiness, his stomach felt empty and concave. He nodded, and Molly quickly went to get the salad before he could protest.

Eating salad was boring. Molly watched over him from her stool. While poking on the greens, his mind wandered to what had happened in his last few minutes.

He was grateful that the fall was successful, but to be honest, even if he did actually die in the fall, he would have considered it a success. The purpose of his fall was to broadcast. That was why he had to make sure John saw him die. He had to make sure that he would feel betrayed and spread the news of the fake genius. Who knew him better than his partner in crime solving? He had to convince John that he was never his friend, that he had been a pawn in Sherlock's game, and nothing more.

"No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please."

That phrase. It shouldn't have affected him this much. It shouldn't make his heart beat so hard that it almost echoes in his chest, or make his throat dry, tight, and aching.

He was going to sigh, but the sharp intake of breath seemed to split the silence in half. Molly looked up, startled. 

"Sherlock?" she asked cautiously, standing up from her stool.

He held his breath for a moment, trying to get a grip. He was able to push those thoughts into a deep corner of his mind. He took a few tentative breaths, in and out, and swigged his water until his heart returned to normal and the emotion passed.

Molly's phone meowed. Poor Molly jumped at the sound. With muttered apologies, she checked the text message.

"'MH'? Is that your brother? How'd he get my number?" she asked.

Sherlock  had never been more grateful for Mycroft to butt in. Just a few moments later, someone knocked on the door, causing Molly to nearly drop her phone in surprise. She hurried to go open the door. After speaking with the  person on the other side, she returned, heavy footsteps and sharp clicks accompanying her squeaks.

"I'm here to recover my brother's body," Mycroft said. Molly snorted, but then look reprimanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up to face his brother. The gurney squeaked when he pushed out of it awkwardly. Mycroft was smirking, of course, as his eyes scanned down Sherlock's body. 

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, his eyes still on Sherlock, "I'll make sure you're compensated for the trouble."

"It's Doctor Hooper," she insisted. Her suddenly firm voice seemed stronger coming from the tiny woman playing with her mauve jacket sleeves. "And there's no need. Just please make sure I don't lose my job. I like my work here."

Mycroft gave her a curt nod and walked passed Sherlock, his umbrella clicking on the floor as he made his way out. Sherlock walked into the beginning of his afterlife.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lost interest. Time passed. Watched new series. Squeed. Watched again. Thought about how bits and pieces of fic fit together with episode. Considered fic. Said "fuck it". Now here it is.

Mycroft had to admit that for someone that had to be practically scrapped from pavement, John Watson did still have a lot of fight in him.

The agents – his term, not liking the way Sherlock called them, no matter how accurate – reported that a paramedic coaxed the army doctor into the A&E and handed him a bottle of water to shut him up and a bright orange blanket to placate him. For the first few minutes, he was babbling and trembling, struggling to understand what had happened. Then it seemed he remembered somewhat how hospitals worked, marched up to the nurse's station, and demanded to be shown Sherlock's body. He only received an eye roll and was pointedly told that only family could come claim a body. He wasn't Sherlock's mate after all.

So, fifteen minutes later, he arrived at Mycroft's office, who politely but firmly told him that the funeral has been arranged and that he was free to come say his final good-byes. Two guards had to come physically drag John out when he got aggressive, raising his voice, ranting, and on the verge of throwing things. Mycroft only sighed and lamented the racket that was made. 

The funeral parlor was crowded, but nowhere near as crowded as it should have been. People spoke as if they would wake up the dead if they spoke too loudly. The funeral was closed casket, obviously. The official explanation was that they couldn't display Sherlock with his head was bashed in, but said in kinder words. People mulled around and prayed in front of a casket full of sand.

Former clients, at least those that somehow overlooked the fact that the man that had helped them was a fraud, approached the casket timidly. Mycroft remembered a few from Sherlock's old cases, still thankful for him even after everything. The funeral was private, but some had reached out to John to say their final farewells and show their gratitude one last time. Mycroft only knew that because of a handful of angry texts Anthea read to him at three in the morning.

He allowed a few, some of the less rambunctious and problematic. So, the funeral was a carefully planned and reserved affair, all unraveled under Mycroft’s watchful eye. He was owed favours. Sherlock stayed out of the planning of his own funeral, miraculously. Everything went as smoothly as it could go.

Mycroft had made a public statement the day before asking for privacy during these difficult times that was mostly ignored. The less people who had to witness the funeral, the better. That certainly didn't stop people from trying.

The media was especially persistent. They sent undercover reporters and photographers. John nearly punched one in the mouth. Mycroft sure wished he had heard what the photographer had said to him. After that, the reporters' efforts slowed, but they still had a few just outside of the funeral home, waiting to pounce on mourners. It was a circus. As much as Mycroft wanted them to spread the news of his brother's death, he couldn't allow them to scrutinize the finer details.

Even though they couldn't sneak into the funeral, the news wouldn't shut up about him. The Sun he read that morning in his office screamed, "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS". Sherlock had a good chuckle out of that one.

Mycroft observed the mourners from afar, sitting at the back of the room. He was mostly left alone. He supposed that nobody knew who he was, and those that did knew better than to talk to him.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and he took a quick glance. [Are you at the funeral? -SH], the text read.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and replied, [Yes. Did you just wake up? And should you really be signing your texts? MH] Sherlock had woken up early that morning, but fell asleep quickly after breakfast. That actually surprised Mycroft. He thought Sherlock would rebound quickly after his fall and want to get to work quickly. Bring down as many agents as quickly as possible. Untangle the web.

[Yes, and it doesn't matter. I'm having a late lunch. -SH]

Mycroft didn't reply back. Sherlock will be safe at his estate for now. Nobody passed through there, and his workers were threatened and bribed accordingly.

Mycroft thought that would be the last he would hear of Sherlock for a while, but a few minutes later, his phone vibrated again. [This chicken tastes off. When was the last time you checked your refrigerator? -SH]

Mycroft sighed. Even dead, his brother was as irritating as ever. [I had it replenished yesterday.], he typed first and then added after a moment of hesitation, [Are you ill? MH]. Mycroft pinched his lips. Sherlock getting sick now was the last thing he needed.

[Had a few bites and vomited. Threw away the rest. -SH]

Well, there went dinner. [I'll have my doctor check you this afternoon. MH]

Just as he pocketed his phone, Mycroft felt someone approach from his side. Male. Alpha from the scent, but at least he was decent enough not to wear amplifiers. Not that the approaching man had a habit of wearing them. Just returned from a smoke. Heavy footsteps from stress. Recently afflicted stress. Like everyone present. Recently and unexpectedly overworked. Wonder why.

"Hey."

Mycroft looked up, unsurprised. Before him stood Detective Inspector Lestrade, hands in his pockets and haggard look on his face. Mycroft gave him a thin smile and replied, "Good afternoon."

Lestrade stood there awkwardly for a few moments. Mycroft was thinking of moving to another seat when Lestrade spoke again, running his hand through his gray hair, "I'm sorry about Sherlock." He shook his head and dropped down his hands, looking away for a moment. "I can't believe this. I've known him for years. I just can't believe someone would go to such extremes for a joke or a trick or whatever the hell he was up to."

"He's fooled all of us," Mycroft commented with a shrug. "I should have kept better watch over him." Only part of that was acted, he noticed.

"He was a good man," DI Lestrade said abruptly. Mycroft could see the shininess in his eyes. Rubbing his temple, DI Lestrade added, "God, I'm both angry at him and thankful for him. He's was quite the help, but he left a mess for me.”

Mycroft could bet that he had a bigger mess because of his brother but didn’t comment that. He blew out a long sigh. "I'm sorry for my brother and the problems he has caused. I am ashamed of my brother's actions.” His voice was stilted, rehearsed.

"Nobody can be clever enough to fool so many people.” Mycroft almost chuckled. He didn’t see the point of why the detective Inspector would come and see him, but it was unimportant at the moment. Anyway, the grey haired man had already departed with a nod and some muttering.

His phone buzzed again. [Bring that doctor tomorrow. This better not be anything serious. -SH]

Later, Mycroft didn't go to his brother's burial to make sure that his dead brother followed his doctor's instructions.

Doctor Beckett reeked of pipe smoke – aromatic fire-cured – and body odor, which first attracted and then repulsed Sherlock, visible in the way he blinked, wrinkled his nose, and leaned back just slightly. He looked positively green, having thrown up again before the doctor arrived. The doctor was obese, with obvious heart issues and poor circulation in his legs. Sherlock’s light eyes flickered over him, taking him in.

The doctor poked and prodded Sherlock, who oddly complied. He asked questions and received stilted answers in return. Then he asked about Sherlock’s last heat.

"About five weeks ago. Three days long," the former detective muttered.

The doctor raised his bushy eyebrows. "Oh, you were with an Alpha?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate at all. "Yes."

Every muscle on Mycroft's face slowly fell and drooped.

The doctor was unperturbed. "What kind of birth control?"

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "Sixty-seven percent."

The doctor barked out a laugh, which deepened Sherlock's scowl and made Mycroft throw his hands up in disbelief. Once he recovered, the doctor gave Sherlock a yellow grin and said, "I assume that a pregnancy test at this point would only be a formality."

"Sixty-seven percent has always worked for me," Sherlock snapped, glaring dangerously at the doctor. "Any higher, and I would barely be able to function with all the artificial hormones flooding my system. Why would I be pregnant now, of all times?"

The doctor shrugged. "It's not like your body did it deliberately."

Mycroft stepped forward, glower burning into both men. "Well, we won't know for sure until we test for it, of course."

Two pairs of blue lines later, Sherlock refused to come out of the bathroom as his brother kicked and banged at the door. Mycroft was sure he was going to pop a blood vessel if Sherlock didn’t open the door right this instant.

To his credit, Mycroft didn’t wring Sherlock’s neck the moment he opened the door. His glare was enough for now.

When Mycroft cooled down enough not to spew insults at Sherlock, he allowed his baby brother to explain himself. He had to pat himself in the back for not flying across his desk to smack some sense into him. Oh, and the pup was his flatmate’s too. That was just the icing on the cake. Mycroft did know that they were shagging, but he never thought his brother would be idiotic enough to share a heat with an Alpha.

Once Sherlock was finished, they were both silent. Mycroft was sure his breaths were the loudest things in the room as he stared at Sherlock. All that planning, all those people organized gone to waste because Sherlock couldn’t handle a little whimpering and some soaked sheets. At least this was something that could be taken care of. Mycroft would just have to make sure Sherlock took more effective birth control and suppressants this time.

"Oh!"

Mycroft sputtered at Sherlock's exclamation.

Sherlock paid no mind to him. His eyes were wide with excitement and he had an honest to God grin pulling up his thin lips. "Yes! The perfect disguise!” he exclaimed. “Mycroft, what is one of the most vulnerable creatures in the world?" Mycroft rolled his eyes in response. Sherlock didn't wait of a reply and just stated firmly, "A pregnant Omega." He scurried over to Mycroft and shoved the inside of his elbow under his brother's nose. "Smell me."

Mycroft immediately batted his arm away from his face, but Sherlock simply put it back where it was. Glaring at his younger brother, Mycroft took a tentative whiff. "I don't smell anything," he muttered. He felt insulted at that. Of course Sherlock was scentless. He was pregnant.

"Exactly!" Sherlock actually looked gleeful at that as he skipped back to his seat across from Mycroft. He dropped himself on the chair, sinking back, and rested both of his hand on his flat abdomen. "I'm as scentless as a Beta. I’m as scentless as you! And I will be for the next few months. After that, I'll look like the most inoffensive creature on Earth, cradling my pup-filled belly."

"You will be the most inoffensive creature in the world," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

“You’re not honestly thinking about keeping it, are you?” the older Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow at his brother. His voice hitched with disbelief. Sherlock couldn’t be that stupid.

“Of course,” Sherlock snorted as if it was so obvious. “No scent. No heats for nine months. The perfect disguise. It’s glorious.”

Mycroft’s jaw slacked a bit, and he honestly saw Sherlock smirk with silent satisfaction. "And after it's born?"

“We’ll give it away. Tons of people want pups.” Sherlock flicked his hand as if shooing a fly. As if it were that easy to make a baby disappear.

Mycroft blew out a breath and prepared himself to give Sherlock the rant of a life time, when the Omega jumped up and leaned on the desk, looking down at his seated brother. “This is unimportant. Let’s discuss my next move. I’m going as far away from here as I can.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock, who was already babbling to himself, one last glance before starting to tell him about how Oceania was this time of year.

Later. He’ll talk about this later. Once Sherlock burned through all the euphoria.


End file.
